That’s the thing that gets me every time.
I’ve been sitting in Riley’s office for four minutes preparing for something — anything — and he walks through the door, sees me, and gives me absolutely nothing.
Right side of the table. Hands flat. Eyes on Riley.
Like I’m not even here.
Which is worse.
Riley has a plan. She always has a plan. She lays it out the way she lays everything out — efficient, weather-report flat, no editorializing. No comment from either party. No confirmation, no denial. I keep my access. He keeps his privacy. We handlequestions the same way:no comment, team policy, focus on the game.
“This works if you both commit to it,” she says. “It doesn’t work if either of you makes it complicated.”
Neither of us says anything.
“Good,” Riley says, like that was an answer.
She closes her laptop.
Twenty minutes. That’s all it takes to contain something that felt enormous at midnight in a parking lot.
We stand up at the same time. File out. The door shuts behind us.
The hallway is long and empty and neither of us planned to be alone in it.
We just turned the same direction.
My jaw is set. I know it’s set because I can feel it and I can’t seem to fix it and my pen is still in my hand because some habits don’t switch off. I look at him the way I look at a problem I’m working out — direct, no performance, not giving anything for free.
“We need to be careful,” I say.
“I know.”
“I mean it, Jax.”
“I know.”
He looks at me. Steady. Letting me check. I check.
“The photo,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“It looks—”
“I know what it looks like.”
He holds my gaze. Doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
The hallway tightens around it.
He’s close enough that I could reach for him. Close enough that I know exactly where my hand would land. Close enough that not touching him feels louder than touching him would.
I make the call. The slight shift in my weight, the pen tightening in my hand, the choice made and held.
We’re both making the same call.
Neither of us is happy about it.
